Reliquary (21 page)

“We have to climb down this rock, it seems,” said Pendergast, shining the penlight beam into a large area at the end of the tunnel. The edges of the rock were slick with the impressions of countless hands and feet. A caustic smell drifted up.

D’Agosta went first, clinging desperately to the sharp, wet basalt. It was the work of five terrifying minutes to reach the bottom. He felt like he was entombed in the very bedrock of the island.

“I’d like to see someone climb that thing messed up on drugs,” he said as Pendergast dropped to the ground beside him. The muscles in his arms were shaking from the exertion.

“Below here, nobody leaves,” said Pendergast. “Except the runners.”

“Runners?”

“As I understand it, they are the only community members who have contact with the surface. They collect and cash AFDC checks, rummage for food, ‘bust’ recyclables for spare change, pick up medicine and milk, buy drugs.”

Pendergast shone his light around, revealing a rough, rocky pit. On the far wall, a five-foot piece of corrugated tin covered an abandoned tunnel. A crude message painted on the wall beside it read
FAMILIES ONLY. ALL OTHERS
KEEP OUT.

Pendergast grabbed the sheet of metal and it swung open with a loud screech. “Doorbell,” he explained.

As they stepped into the tunnel, a ragged-looking figure suddenly appeared in front of them, a large firebrand in one hand. He was tall and terrifyingly gaunt. “Who are you?” he demanded, standing in Pendergast’s way.

“Are you Tail Gunner?” Pendergast asked.

“Outside,” the man said, pushing them toward the tin door. In a moment they were back out in the rocky pit. “The name’s Flint. What do you want?”

“I’m here to see Mephisto,” Pendergast replied.

“What for?”

“I’m the leader of Grant’s Tomb. A small community beneath Columbia University. I’ve come to talk about the killings.”

There was a long silence. “And him?” Flint said, gesturing at D’Agosta.

“My runner,” said Pendergast.

Flint turned back to Pendergast. “Weapons or drugs?” he asked.

“No weapons,” said Pendergast. In the lambent glow of the firebrand, he looked suddenly embarrassed. “But I do carry my own little supply--”

“No drugs here,” said Flint. “We’re a clean community.”

Bullshit,
D’Agosta thought, looking into the man’s burning eyes.

“Sorry,” said Pendergast, “I don’t give up my stash. If that’s a problem--”

“What’ve you got?” Flint asked.

“None of your business.”

“Coke?” he asked, and D’Agosta thought he detected a faint hopeful tone in his voice.

“Good guess,” said Pendergast after a moment.

“I’m gonna have to confiscate that.”

“Consider it a gift.” Pendergast brought out a small folded piece of tinfoil and handed it to Flint, who quickly tucked it into his coat.

“Follow me,” he said.

D’Agosta pulled the metal sheet closed behind them and followed Flint as he led them down a metal staircase. The staircase ended in a narrow opening that led onto a cement landing, suspended far above a vast cylindrical room. Flint turned and began moving down a cement ramp that spiraled along the wall. As he walked down the ramp, D’Agosta noticed that several cubbyholes had been cut into the rock. Each cubbyhole was occupied by individuals or families. Candles and kerosene lamps flickered over dirty faces and filthy beddings. Looking across the vast space, D’Agosta could see a broken pipe jutting from the wall. Water spilled from the pipe and fell into a muddy pool that had been excavated out of the cavern floor. Several figures huddled around it, apparently washing clothes. The dirty water ran away in a stream and disappeared into the broken mouth of a tunnel.

Reaching the bottom, they crossed the stream on an ancient board. Groups of underground dwellers dotted the cavern floor, sleeping or playing cards. A man lay in a far corner, his eyes open and milky, and D’Agosta realized he was awaiting burial. He turned away.

Flint led them through a long, low passage from which many tunnels seemed to branch. In the dim light at the end of some of the corridors, D’Agosta could see people at work: storing canned goods, mending clothes, distilling grain alcohol, At last, Flint brought them out into a space filled with the glow of electric light. Looking up, D’Agosta saw a single light bulb, dangling from a frayed cord that ran to an old junction box in one corner.

D’Agosta’s eyes traveled down from the bulb along the crack-riddled bricks that lined the chamber. Then he froze, a gasp of disbelief on his lips. In the center of the room was a battered and ancient train caboose, tilted at a crazy angle, its rear wheels suspended at least two feet above the floor. How it had ended up in this strange lunatic place he couldn’t begin to imagine. Along its side, he barely could make out the letters
NEW YO   CENTRA 
in faded black on the rusted red metal.

Motioning them to stay put, Flint entered the caboose. He emerged a few minutes later, beckoning them forward.

Stepping inside, D’Agosta found himself in a small antechamber, the far end of which was covered with a thick dark curtain. Flint had vanished. The caboose was dark and stupefyingly hot.

“Yes?” hissed a strange voice from beyond the curtain.

Pendergast cleared his throat. “I’m known as Whitey, leader of Grant’s Tomb. We heard about your call for the underground people to band together, to stop the killings.”

There was a silence. D’Agosta wondered what lay beyond the curtain.
Maybe nothing
, he told himself.
Maybe it’s like in
The Wizard of Oz.
Maybe Smithback had just made half the article up. You could never tell with journalists
...

“Come in,” the voice said.

The curtain was pulled aside. Reluctantly, D’Agosta followed Pendergast into the chamber beyond.

The interior was dark, lit only by the reflected glow of the naked bulb outside and by a small fire that smoldered beneath a vent in one corner. In front of them, a man sat in a massive, thronelike chair that had been placed in the exact center of the room. He was tall, with large limbs and long, thick gray hair. The man was dressed in an ancient bell-bottom suit of tan corduroy and wore a threadbare Borsalino hat. A heavy silver Navajo squash blossom necklace set with turquoise hung around his neck.

Mephisto stared at them with unusually penetrating eyes. “Mayor Whitey. Unoriginal. Not likely to induce reverence. But in your albinoid case, appropriate.” The hiss had taken on a slow, formal tone.

D’Agosta felt the gaze turn on him.
Whatever else this guy is,
D’Agosta thought,
he ain’t crazy. At least, not completely crazy.
He felt uneasy; Mephisto’s eyes glittered with suspicion.

“And this one?” he asked.

“Cigar. My runner.”

Mephisto stared at D’Agosta for a long time. Then he turned back to Pendergast. “I’ve never heard of a Grant’s Tomb community,” he said, voice laced with doubt.

“There’s a large network of service tunnels beneath Columbia and its outbuildings,” Pendergast said. “We’re small, and we mind our own business. The students are pretty generous.”

Mephisto nodded, listening. The look of suspicion slowly vanished, replaced by something that was either a leer or a smile, D’Agosta couldn’t be sure which. “Of course. Always nice to meet an ally in these dark days. Let’s seal this meeting with some refreshments. We can talk afterwards.”

He clapped his hands. “Chairs for our guests! And get that fire going! Tail Gunner, bring us some meat.” A thin, short man D’Agosta had not seen before appeared out of the shadows and left the caboose. Another, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, struggled to his feet and, moving with glacial slowness, piled wood on the fire and poked it into life.
It’s already too damn hot in here,
D’Agosta thought as he felt the sweat trickle down the inside of his greasy shirt.

An enormous, heavily muscled man came in with two packing crates, which he set in front of Mephisto’s chair. “Gentlemen, please,” Mephisto said with mock gravity, gesturing at the crates.

D’Agosta settled himself gingerly on the packing crate as the man called Tail Gunner returned, carrying something wet and dripping in a piece of old newspaper. He dropped it beside the fire, and D’Agosta felt his stomach seize up involuntarily: inside was an enormous rat, its head half crushed, paws still twitching rhythmically as if to some internal beat.

“Excellent!” cried Mephisto. “Fresh caught, as you can see.” He turned his piercing eyes on Pendergast. “You
do
eat track rabbit, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Pendergast replied.

D’Agosta noticed that the heavily muscled man was now standing directly behind them. It began to dawn on him that they were about to undergo a test they had better not fail.

Reaching out, Mephisto took the carcass in one hand and a long metal roasting spit in the other. Holding the rat beneath its front haunches, Mephisto deftly threaded the skewer from anus to head, then set it over the fire to roast. D’Agosta watched in horrified fascination as the hair immediately sizzled and caught fire, and the rat gave one final convulsive spasm. A moment later the entire animal flared up, sending a plume of acrid smoke toward the roof of the caboose. It died down again, the tail withering into a blackened corkscrew.

Mephisto watched the rat for a moment. Then he plucked it from the fire, pulled a knife out of his coat, and scraped the remaining hair off the skin. Piercing the belly to release the cooking gases, he returned it to the flame, this time at a higher elevation.

“It takes skill,” he said, “to cook
le grand souris en brochette
.”

D’Agosta waited, acutely aware that all eyes were on him and Pendergast. He did not want to imagine what would happen if he betrayed the slightest hint of disgust.

Minutes passed in silence as the rat sizzled. Mephisto rotated the rack, then looked at Pendergast. “How do you like yours?” he asked. “I prefer mine rare.”

“Suits me,” Pendergast said, as placidly as if he were being offered toast points at Tavern on the Green.

It’s just an animal
, D’Agosta thought in desperation.
Eating it won’t kill me. Which is more than I can say for these guys.

Mephisto sighed in ill-concealed anticipation. “Look done to you?”

“Let’s eat,” said Pendergast, rubbing his hands together.

D’Agosta said nothing.

“This calls for alcohol!” cried Mephisto. Almost immediately a half-empty bottle of Night Train appeared. Mephisto eyed it with disgust.

“These are guests!” he said, tossing the bottle aside. “Bring something suitable!” Shortly, a mossy bottle of Cold Duck and three plastic glasses arrived. Mephisto removed the metal skewer and slid the cooked rat onto the newspaper.

“You do the honors,” he said, handing it to Pendergast.

D’Agosta struggled with a sudden sense of panic. What was Pendergast supposed to do? He watched with mingled horror and relief as Pendergast, without hesitation, raised the rat and put his lips to the gash in its flank. There was a sharp sucking sound as the rodent was eviscerated. D’Agosta felt his gorge rise.

Licking his lips, Pendergast set the newspaper and its burden in front of their host.

“Excellent,” he said simply.

Mephisto nodded. “Interesting technique.”

“Hardly.” Pendergast shrugged. “They spread a lot of rat poison around the Columbia service tunnels. You can always tell by tasting the liver whether it’s safe to eat.”

A broad, and genuine, smile spread across Mephisto’s face. “I’ll remember that,” he said. Taking the knife, he cut several strips of meat from one haunch and handed them to D’Agosta.

The moment had come. Out of the corner of his eye, D’Agosta saw the hulking figure behind them grow tense. Squeezing his eyelids closed, he attacked the meat with feigned gusto, stuffing everything into his mouth at once, chewing furiously and swallowing the strips almost before he had a chance to taste them. He grinned through his agony, wrestling with the horrible feeling of nausea that swept across his gut.

“Bravo!” said Mephisto, watching. “A true gourmand!”

The level of tension in the air decreased palpably. As D’Agosta sat back on his packing crate, putting a protective hand over his stomach, the silence in the room gave way to low laughter and whispered conversation.

“You’ll forgive my suspicion,” Mephisto said. “There was a time when life underground was much more open and trusting. If you are who you say you are, you know that already. But these are difficult times.”

Mephisto poured them each a glass of wine, then raised his own in a toast. He sliced off several more cuts of meat and passed them to Pendergast, then demolished the rest of the rat himself.

“Let me introduce my Lieutenants,” Mephisto said. He waved at the hulking figure that stood behind them. “This is Little Harry. Got into horse pretty young. Took to petty thievery to support the habit. One thing led to another, and he ended up in Attica. They taught him quite a lot there. When he got out, he couldn’t find a job. Luckily, he wandered below and joined our community before he could fall back into bad habits.”

Mephisto pointed at the slow-moving figure by the fire. “That’s Boy Alice. Used to teach English at a Connecticut prep school. Things went sour. He lost his job, got divorced, ran out of money, began hitting the bottle. He gravitated to the shelters and soup kitchens. That’s where he heard about us. As for Tail Gunner, he got back from ‘Nam only to find that the country he’d defended didn’t want anything to do with him.”

Mephisto wiped his mouth on the newspaper. “That’s more than you need to know,” he said. “We’ve left the past behind, as you must have. So you’re here about the killings?”

Pendergast nodded. “Three of our people have been missing since last week, and the rest are getting concerned. We heard your call for alliance against the Wrinklers. The headless killers.”

“Word is getting around. Two days ago I heard from the Philosopher. Know of him?”

Pendergast hesitated for just a second. “No,” he replied.